Mon Seul Amor
by escritoria
Summary: There's still hurt lingering behind that smile, because when you lose the love of your life you can never forget... FrancexJoan of Arc


**AN: This is the result of a Hetalia fangirl sitting through a lecture about the 100 Years' War. I also would just like to think that Francis has a softer side, one that not a lot of people know about... And plus, there's GOT to be a reason that someone turned out so strange o_O But yeah, this fic was mostly for me, so I'm not sure how well it turned out xD**

**Translations are at the bottom, with little bits of history just for reference. Enjoy, and please leave a review telling me what you think!**

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><p>"Onhonhonhonhon~," chuckled Francis Bonnefoy as he advanced on Arthur. The smaller man backed away warily until his back hit a wall. Panicked, Arthur looked around desperately, but he was in a corner—there was no way out. <em>Perfect!<em> "Come now, _Angleterre_, don't be such a stick in ze mud!"

"Stick in the mud?" demanded Arthur indignantly, trying to squeeze himself even farther back into the corner he was now trapped in. He _was_ rather small for such a loud man, but it was impressive how far away from Francis he'd managed to contort himself. "How is wanting to avoid being raped being a stick in the mud?"

"It's only rape if you resist," France reminded his friend gleefully, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

"I'M RESISTING! OW! GET OFF OF ME YOU BLOODY FROG!"

Somehow England managed to wrestle his way to the other side of Francis, so that he was now free to escape. With rather surprising speed he took off down the hallway.

_Darn_. Francis hadn't counted on getting beaten by America until after he'd had his fun. But Arthur was a tattletale, and Alfred tended to get rather incensed whenever France tried to…_convince_…England to have a little fun with him.

"Dude, France, what's your deal?" demanded Alfred, storming down the hallway. Arthur trailed in his shadow, smirking haughtily at France.

"I 'ave no idea what you're—" He was cut off by Alfred's warning look. "Okay, I admit! I was seducing your precious little _Angleterre_. Is zat a crime?"

"_Rape_ IS a crime!" cried Arthur.

Francis shot him a glare. "If you're going to 'ide behind _Am__é__rique_ zen stay out of zis," he ordered.

Alfred glared right back, stepping in front of Arthur to hide him. "Francis, seriously, man! What's your problem? Was he always a man-whore, Iggy?"

A cold shock ran through both England and France as they both relived that moment in history that had changed Francis forever. At least the Brit had the decency to avert his eyes, looking as stricken as Francis, when Alfred asked that.

"No, not always," Arthur said after a long moment of frigid silence. "Come, Alfred, let's go." He grabbed the younger nation's hand and started tugging him away.

"Wait! I didn't get to open a can of whoopin' on France!" whined Alfred as he was dragged off.

Francis, for once, was frozen, and didn't say anything or do anything. _A man-whore, am I?_ He smirked humorlessly. _I suppose I am. Ever since SHE was…_

He felt himself tumbling headlong into the memories of his last real lover, the only woman he'd ever truly loved in his centuries of life—the woman the English had called Joan of Arc. _Jeanne. _Mon seul amour_, how I miss you…_

She'd been as bold, as brave as any man—striding into the court of King Philip like that, declaring that God had told her it was her destiny to save France. That had made Francis notice her very quickly. At this point, things were desperate—the Hundred Years War had been raging for a long time now, and England had practically swallowed up all of France's territory. At first people scoffed at her. Women were not soldiers, especially not generals or commanders. But gradually, people's opinions began to change. Anyone who had passion enough to ignore all propriety and convention that ran deeper than law like that in defense of her country, to follow the path she felt had been ordained for her by God… Well, maybe she was the miracle they needed to take back what was theirs.

And, as it turned out, she was.

Joan was a miracle in every way. When she first made her appearance in the royal court, Francis was terribly sick. In fact, he could feel death tugging at his coattails like a child beckoning him to follow somewhere unseen. As a country, Francis had never thought about dying—but now death was at his very door. And Joan beat it back. She conquered back his lands, nursing him to health without ever touching him. Day by day he felt his strength grow. Not only was she bringing back his territory, though—she was instilling national pride in his people, uniting them into one nation instead of a handful of regional kingdoms. In only a few years, he went from deathly ill to stronger than he'd felt since Charlemagne.

Once he felt well enough again, he went out to join his people on the front lines of the battle, as was his duty as a nation. And it was there he formally met Joan for the first time.

He walked into the camp, gazing around at the tents and the fortifications, wondering at their solidarity. After all, they had been erected under the command of a woman. As impressive as her skill in battle was, he could hardly believe a woman had done all this. Surely she must have a male advisor, or something of the sort.

Francis changed his mind after his first meeting with Joan. She had a striking presence, and radiated command. She kept her hair cropped short, wore men's clothing, fought beside her men and took wounds like a battle-hardened soldier. She was zealously religious, and more inspirational than anyone Francis had ever seen. All in all, she was a very imposing woman. But despite all that, she was lovely, and had a womanly care and devotion under her tough exterior that made Francis fall head-over-heels for her.

Her love for her country was so deep that it was hardly a surprise that she fell in love with its personification as deeply as he had fallen for her, his savior, the heaven-sent miracle that had rescued him from death. Of course, there was a war going on, so they didn't have much time for romance, but what little they got was all the sweeter for it.

Those years with Joan were the happiest of Francis' existence. He was never so happy before or since, and she wasn't even his lover in all senses of the word. She was devoted to her faith, and if the Lord said no adultery, then she would be a virgin until marriage. Francis often wondered if countries were allowed to marry when he was with her. But he was content enough with the way things were, their few stolen kisses and rare moments where they could just set down their weapons and be together, pretending they were any average young couple in love. But unfortunately, they weren't. He was the personification of a nation, and she was a female general in war-torn times when men dominated the universe. For now, they had to put their country first. Once the war was over, there would be time to think of more permanent things like marriage.

But England had other plans. He saw how France and his people loved Joan, and he knew that as long as she lived, France would be invincible.

Before he even got the news, Francis knew it in his gut when Joan was captured on that sunny summer day. He could already feel the loss of her in the part of him that could feel his country's emotions—and their national heroine had just been stolen from them by the British. Rage and fear warred inside him as he fought all that summer, and that autumn, to get her back. The entire country surged forward as one to rescue Joan.

They weren't fast enough.

The British convicted her of heresy—and they didn't just burn her at the stake _once_, they burned her _three times_. On Francis' own soil. And they didn't even give her a proper Christian burial—they scattered her ashes in the Seine, allowing the water to carry away what remained of Francis' only love.

"_Mon amour, mon amour_," he'd wept when he found the ashes of the stake they'd burned her on, falling to his knees among the dirt and filth. Foolishly, he'd ridden ahead of the army—as if he could do anything to save her alone. But he didn't care. Even if it cost him his life, he had to try. But he'd been too late, after all. He beat his fists in the ashes, smearing himself with the filth and corruption that he could feel permeating his very soul. "'Ow could 'e do zis to us? We were going to be togezer forever… I swear, _ma chere_, I'll make 'im pay for what 'e did to you! _Je vous promets, Jeanne d'Arc, il sera puni pour ce_!"

England, watching France's spectacle from behind a nearby building, was appalled at the sight of Francis weeping over the ashes of Jeanne d'Arc. He hadn't realized how deeply Joan's death would hurt Francis. And now he was wondering if maybe he'd made a fatal mistake.

He had. Within two decades, the British had been swept out of France. Fueled by their rage at Joan's horribly unfair execution, the people of France's loosely bound kingdoms banded together as one and crushed their enemies with the fist of justice.

'_Er final gift to me… She made me a nation in truth…_ After banding together to avenge Joan, the people of France were finally one people. Even in death, Joan was completely devoted to her nation—both the land and the man that she'd loved.

Of course, Francis had since forgiven Arthur for killing his love. It had happened almost six centuries ago, after all. But there was no forgetting. Joan was made a saint, and her image was everywhere he looked. And even if that hadn't been true, her image was branded onto his heart. Those precious few years with her were now treasures.

Francis had always known she would die before him, of course. But it was different in this case—she died a viciously unjust death, long before her time, before Francis had ever really gotten to love her. And it made him bitter.

The final consummation of love, something he'd never gotten to share with Joan, became his obsession. He was looking for something, anything, to fill the void she'd left behind. Nothing worked, but he kept searching for a love that could replace hers, unaware that his bitter heart had already shut its eyes to any type of love he might encounter.

"At least 'e remembers… At least 'e understands why I'm zis way…" Francis sighed, resurfacing from the memories. "Ah, Jeanne… _Je suis d__ésolé_… You'd be ashamed of me, wouldn't you, _mon amour_?"

Her last words to him echoed in his mind. It had been just a few nights before her final campaign, the one she'd been captured on. He'd been worried for her, rightly so, it had seemed. The British force was strong, and he wouldn't be able to go with her—duty had called him elsewhere, to supervise another front of the war.

_Je t'aime, Francis_, she'd said, touching his cheek softly as she leaned in to kiss him. He'd always remember it—it was their last kiss. She always kissed so innocently, but he could feel her love and joy at being with him pouring through her lips into him, filling him with all the love she felt for him. _Toujours se rappeler que. Je t'aime, peu importe ce qui m'arrive_. I love you, Francis. Remember that always. I love you, no matter what happens to me.

"_Moi aussi je t'aime, Jeanne_," he whispered to no one. "_Toujours_."

Outside, the wind picked up, blowing autumn leaves from the trees, and Francis could almost believe that he heard his lost love's laughter floating on the breeze.

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

**Mon seul amor = My only love**

**Je vous promets, Jeanne d'Arc, il sera puni pour ce = I promise you, Joan of Arc, he'll be punished for this**

**Je suis désolé = I'm sorry**

**Moi aussi je t'aime, Jeanne = I love you too, Joan**

**Toujours = always**

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><p><strong>Charlemagne was a king of early France. He was an incredible ruler, and his kingdom was supposed to be a revival of the great Roman Empire. Yes, France was almost Rome O.O But after Charlemagne's death, his children squabbled over territory rights and, long story short, his empire crumbled not long after he died.<strong>

**Joan of Arc appeared before the French court in 1429, saying that God had given her the task of saving France. And the French king believed her. So she became a general, and everyone loved her because she did what no one else could-she actually won battles.**

**Joan was burned at the stake for heresy on May 30, 1431 in Rouen, a city in northern France. She was probably around 20 at the time. To prevent anybody from finding her body, Joan was burned three times, and then her ashes were scattered into the nearby Seine River.**

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><p><strong>AN: So yeah! That was my Francy fluff moment. Please review!<strong>


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